


"if it hadn't been me..."

by FieldKit (SamMasterson)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen, M/M, au but i refuse to say what type bc Spoilers Darling, reuploaded with edits specifically to annihilate a friend, this is buried in my tumblr somewhere...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26540257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamMasterson/pseuds/FieldKit
Summary: "...it most certainly would have been you."
Relationships: Breakdown/Knock Out
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	"if it hadn't been me..."

He paced the floor of the Infirmary, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong. It had been more than an hour since his partner had last answered his comms; highly unusual for what was supposed to be a routine mission. But what made waiting even worse was his knowledge of the fact that the other half of the Decepticons’ medical team wasn’t just out scouting for energon with Airachnid and Dreadwing. That was nothing more than a ruse; a poor sham to cover up a “demotion” that Megatron should have simply handled on his own. Now his closest friend was out trying to casually bump off Cybertron’s most fearsome assassin, with no back-up save for a half-sparked Seeker. Already the three of them had been gone too long. Anything could have happened at this point.

A subdued alarm sounded over the ship-wide alert system, signalling a groundbridge and the return of the ‘scouting party’. With the restrained haste of a low-ranking Decepticon in a hurry, he jogged through the close, violet-hued passageways of the _Nemesis_ to the small storage room Soundwave had repurposed into a routine ‘bridging station.

He arrived, tense and slightly out of breath, just as the brilliant portal swirled shut behind Dreadwing. The Seeker was left standing alone in the middle of the room, shreds of webbing hanging from his shoulders. As he stepped closer to the jet, the sick feeling from before surged up into his throat, and he swallowed against it.

“Sir?” Surely Dreadwing would not judge him for asking; after all, the Decepticons’ new second-in-command had been a split-spark. He understood such alien concepts as ‘family’. “Where is…?”

The huge Seeker fixed him with burning optics the colour of poppies. And that was when he _knew_ – because there was nothing remotely cheerful in that bright, solemn gaze.

“I’m sorry, Breakdown. The Chief Medical Officer is dead.”

* * *

It was odd, the amount of time it took for the reality if the situation to sink in. Breakdown would catch himself looking over at the Infirmary door every other shift-change or so, still half-expecting Knockout to come breezing in, complaining cheerfully about something or other and making snide comments at Starscream’s expense. And even though he was now officially the on-ship medic, Breakdown would still sometimes meet medical emergencies with a reassuring, “Don’t worry, Knockout will—” before he would stop himself, give his patient a tilting smile, and continue with, “I’ll fix you up.”

[Dreadwing was kind to him, in the way that Decepticons were: fuel shared in the mess; the brush of pauldrons in the hallway; the soft, “What do you think of this?” as the second went over scouting reports with his medic.

And he was Dreadwing's, only. Breakdown's loyalty for Megatron, which had been ebbing since they came to Earth, was finally gone entirely.]

Once, Breakdown found himself turning, cloth in hand, because he thought he had heard a soft, annoyed “Eugh” from behind him. The Vehicon – who had only coughed lightly to gain Breakdown’s attention – was very confused to see the new Chief Medical Officer of the _Nemesis_ turn quickly around and then suddenly and unexpectedly burst into tears. As the Vehicons were very fond of Breakdown, Decepticon Command never got word of that particular incident.

[“Were you bonded?” Dreadwing asked him once, on a night when the mess was empty save for the two of them. His sharp digits absently worried at the armour over his spark, as if soothing away some phantom pain.

Breakdown shook his head. “We were waiting...”

 _…until after the war_ , went unsaid.

Dreadwing nodded, then, not meeting his gaze. “Don’t regret it. What you chose to spare each other from was an act of devotion on its own.”

Perhaps it had been, Breakdown decided. Metaphorical sparkbreak was enough without it having to be literal.]

After a while, things settled back into routine, and the sharp emptiness in Breakdown’s chest eased off to a dull but ever-present ache. He learned the delicate balance of splitting his time between the battlefield and the Infirmary, and – for the most part – stopped thinking that he should have been the one to venture out that fateful evening.

What would he have wanted Knockout to do, anyway, if their situations had been reversed? He thought about it, often, and then tried to do those things for himself. It was the easiest way to frame it. It was the easiest way to keep moving.

Soundwave lent him datapads on more advanced medical procedures; things Breakdown had only seen Knockout perform or had perhaps assisted him with, but nothing he had ever attempted himself. He began to hang back during confrontations with the Autobots, choosing instead to snipe from the rear while watching the field for casualties. As much as could be helped, he stopped going on solo missions, and took to haunting the Infirmary or the bridge of the _Nemesis_ , simply so that he could be on-hand in case anything happened.

 _These are mine_ , he thought, each and every time a Vehicon crossed his path. _These are mine, now, and this time, I’ll keep them safe._

So it was neither accident nor intent that led Breakdown to be present when Knockout’s signal came back online; he was there seemingly because he was _supposed_ to be.

* * *

The beeping was only mildly irritating, like a monitor tracking an erratic sparkbeat. Breakdown went to see if he could fix it or mute it or at least turn it down.

His hand froze in midair over the keyboard when he saw the cause for the alarm. “Lord Megatron,” he began, hesitantly. “Knockout’s life signal is back online, sir.” He leaned in to get a better look at the glyphs and tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. “But it’s corrupted.”

Megatron did not turn from his own monitor, but his voice still carried across the bridge. “Investigate with caution, Medic.” Somehow, Breakdown knew that he would never be called ‘Doctor’, as Knockout had been. “While it would serve us well to have our former Chief Medical Officer back among our ranks, this may very well be an Autobot trick.”

“I certainly hope it’s not, sir,” Breakdown replied, but only loud enough for his own audials.

It was but a few minutes later that Breakdown and a trio of nervous Eradicons crossed though the groundbridge and into the wreckage of a human military base. Smoke billowed from a gaping hole in the side of a building, but otherwise all was still amongst the downed helicopters and upended automobiles.

As Breakdown began to work his way through the debris, movement caught in the corner of his good optic, and he turned towards it. Through the thick, grey smoke, a familiar figure emerged. He was dented, darkened, and dragging a large metal case, but Breakdown knew his partner when he saw him.

“Knockout!” he called, vaulting over a Jeep in his haste. “I – We thought you were dead! Where have you be—?” The porcelain face, now ashy and cracked, swung around to face him, and Breakdown couldn’t help but recoil when he saw the blank, jagged gash where Knockout’s right optic should have been. Even more unsettling was the odd, twisting grin he bore instead of his usual teasing smirk. “Knockout, what happened?”

“Ah.” It was not Knockout’s voice. “While I’m sure it would be a captivating story for you, it won’t be nearly as interesting to Megatron as this.” He held up the case in one sharp, firm movement that was nothing like Knockout’s light and fluid ease. “So, take me to your leader.” Then he cocked his head; and despite the blackened paint and ruined visage, he suddenly managed to look like Knockout again, if only a little.

Breakdown froze, uncertain. “Knockout – are you—”

“A little slow today, are we?” The spectral face grinned, and Knockout was gone again. In his stead, Breakdown could almost see the gloating face that belonged to the oil-smoke voice and to the harsh body language. “Breakdown, if I recall correctly… You’re shorter than I remember.”

“Silas?” Breakdown whispered – and he had never in his whole life hoped more to be wrong than in that moment.

“In the flesh – in a manner of speaking.”

One of the first lessons a battlefield medic learns is where all the weak spots are in the armour. Breakdown pulled up his shoulder cannon and shot twice.

Studiously ignoring the implications of both the organic residue inside the ruin of his Conjunx’s chest and the frightened Eradicons standing behind him, Breakdown stood over the smoking hole he had blown in the dull, maroon armour and hissed, “That was for Knockout.” He turned away from the crumpled form to glance at the fidgeting troopers. “And for you, too.” After all, a good medic believes in preventative medicine.

When the _Nemesis_ hailed him, asking for a status update, all he said was, “Nothing, sir. Must have been an echo in the system.”

**Author's Note:**

> [fingerguns but like, as a gremlin]


End file.
